


A Woman Scorned

by PhrancesP



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:20:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhrancesP/pseuds/PhrancesP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When love turns to hate...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Woman Scorned

A Woman Scorned

By PhrancesP

 

_Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,_

_Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned._

 

William Congreve (The Mourning Bride, 1697)

 

Set immediately after the last episode of Season 2, not counting the Christmas episode. Thanks to Kerry Greenwood for creating Phryne Fisher, and thanks to Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries for presenting Jack Robinson as an object of passion.

 

Phryne Fisher leaned back against the door of her home and a smiled played across her lips.  There, just for an instant, at the bottom of her staircase, Jack Robinson had lowered his eyes to her lips and moved, almost imperceptibly, towards her. Phryne knew what it looked like when a man wanted to kiss her, and she knew what Jack Robinson looked like when he wanted something.  Of course, she usually saw that intent, focused look on the food that she offered to him, but this moment had been different.  Before she could develop this pleasant train of thought, the air cracked open with the sound of a rifle shot –

 

“Jack!”  She whirled around and opened the door to see Jack, standing on her stoop in darkness amid shards of glass.  He pushed his way back into the house, slammed the door shut, and pulled her forcefully towards the back of the house.  “Phryne! Stay here.  Someone shot out your porch light – I think they were shooting at me.  It could be one of Fletcher’s men.”   Phryne was not surprised. After all, it had only been a few hours since she and Jack had apprehended Sidney Fletcher and his nefarious crew of white slavers.  “I’ll need your gun,” he went on.  “My own is in my car.”

 

Before Phryne could respond, her fearless domestic staff appeared – Dot, in a dressing gown, keeping Jane behind her on the staircase, and Mr. Butler, in pajamas, with a loaded gun of his own. “Here, Inspector Robinson,” he offered. “Take this one.  I have several others available.” Phryne’s Aunt Prudence appeared from the parlor, holding the infant boy who had been born in Phryne’s home during this eventful day. Phryne took control. “Dot, stay upstairs with Jane. Aunt Prudence, take the baby up to Mary and stay with her.  Mr. B, please guard the kitchen door.  I’m going with Inspector Robinson.”

 

Jack grimaced, but he did not argue with Phryne’s right to investigate this threat to her home.  “First, Miss Fisher,” he said firmly, “we call for back-up.” Jack dialed the City South police station while Phryne pulled on her long leather boots and wrapped a dark coat around her silk robe.  Jack raised an eyebrow when he saw her attire.  “What the well-dressed Lady Detective wears?”  Phryne smiled coquettishly in return.  “Rather less, I’m afraid.”  Jack paused, silently inquiring.  “I’m not wearing a hat, Jack!” she said, with mock innocence.

 

Together they crept towards the front door of the house.  Jack had turned off the interior lights, and they opened the door silently to slip out onto the porch. They huddled together behind the bushes at the railing and peered out towards the street.  “The shot came from the road,” Jack whispered. Phryne’s eyes were adjusting to the dark. “I see something …”

 

Jack cursed to himself.  She had slipped away so quickly.  He watched her progress as she made her way towards the street and then he lost sight of her in the shadows.  “Jack,” she hissed.  Her lips were almost touching his ear and his heart leapt in surprise. “I’ve found the gun.” She handed the rifle to him. When his bare hands felt the gun he froze.  Phryne sensed the change in him.  “What is it, Jack?”

 

“It’s my gun.”

 

Once inside the house they made their way to the parlor almost automatically.  Phryne poured out two drinks and placed Jack’s glass near him.  He sat looking at the rifle in his hands, still silent, and Phryne waited.

 

“Rosie.”  Her breath caught in her throat, but she still did not speak. He went on, painfully. “This is my gun, my hunting rifle. I haven’t seen it for years. It’s always been kept at her father’s house. All of our hunting trips left from there, and it was easier to keep the guns together in his case. But, as soon as I felt it, I knew it was mine.”  He put it down, suddenly, as if it were a snake.  His hands were shaking, and he took up his glass carefully.  He drank quickly and deeply.

 

Phryne still sat quietly, piecing together the events that had happened.  She had many questions, but she was not sure where to begin.  Rosie Sanderson, Jack’s ex-wife, had been at the police station earlier in the evening, and Phryne had seen Jack comforting her over the devastating news that her father and her fiance had been arrested in connection with the slavery raid. 

 

Jack rose, and Phryne gathered herself for another chaste farewell at the door.  But Jack moved towards her where she sat and, to her shock, bent down on one knee in front of her.   He took her hand in both of his own, but he did not meet her eyes.  “She must have followed me here.  She was so angry.  I never suspected that Rosie would be capable of violence.” His voice broke, and he paused. “Phryne…” His fingers passed gently across her knuckles, and he finally looked up at her.

 

Phryne could not bear the anguish in Jack’s eyes, and she instinctively comforted him, speaking lightly even as she wound her fingers around his into a perfect fit.  “I prefer to see this episode as a demonstration of the great passion that you inspire in your women.”

 

He smiled in relief.  “Now that’s something that I have never been accused of before.” She cupped her hand, intending to caress his cheek, to pull him close, but before she could move they heard the knock at the door, followed by Constable Hugh Collins’ impatient voice.  “Inspector? Miss Fisher?  Dottie?”

 

 


End file.
